


Mates

by mistr3ssquickly



Series: Redemption [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope
Genre: F/M, Han is just really kind of a slut, I adore Chewbacca, I really don't know where this fic came from, M/M, POV Second Person, We'd not want him any other way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 06:10:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6644461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistr3ssquickly/pseuds/mistr3ssquickly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone said Chewbacca was crazy for joining up with a human to travel the galaxy, <i>especially</i> a human like Han Solo.</p><p>They might not've been entirely incorrect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mates

**Mates**

They all said you were crazy for joining up with a human to travel the galaxy, your wife practically apoplectic when she learnt that the specific human you’d chosen as a partner had a price on his head and a long history of smuggling and fighting and _killing,_ a longer list of warlords and bounty hunters and Imperial forces all looking for him than not, your dismissal and Han’s cavalier attitude when she confronted the pair of you about it sending her into a fury unlike anything you’d ever seen before over the long years you’ve known her.

When Han falls for the old man’s offer of money in the grotty little cantina he _insists_ on visiting every time he drags you out to Tatooine, your wife’s assertions that you’ve joined up with a madman come to the fore of your thoughts. When he straight-up murders Greedo not five minutes later and doesn’t have the sense to do more than amble out of the cantina into the punishing heat of late afternoon, you repeat some of your wife’s best insults to him, hoping to jar him into a temper that’ll bring him to his senses. It doesn’t, which means you’re helping him pilot the _Falcon_ off of Tatooine amid a shower of Imperial fire fifteen minutes later, Han too busy arguing like a temperamental cub with the younger cub he -- for whatever reason -- hasn’t banned from the cockpit for you to get a word in edgewise to tell him you’re pretty sure he’s insane for taking this job without getting paid first.

You _do_ tell him, later. And because he’s human, and a human with a short fuse besides, he gets _mad_ at you and calls you all sort of insulting names, storming off to his bunk in a temper that you’re pretty sure is just covering his displeasure with the fact that you’re right and he doesn’t want to admit it.

Also because he’s human, he doesn’t waste any time slipping into the swagger and grin he takes on whenever he’s found what he considers a suitable mate, practically strutting around the _Falcon_ once you’ve all escaped from certain death (again) and he’s got the pretty female cub aboard and stalwartly ignoring his advances, the male cub bristling noticeably whenever he’s within earshot or line-of-sight of Han’s mating dances. You endure it as long as you can, then inform Han that he should look into having a starfowl’s train grafted onto his ass if he’s going to be so _desperately_ obvious in his advances, which gets you a slew of insults aimed at your species’ _perfectly normal, thank you_ mating rituals and habits, your annoyance tempered only by the vicious blush Han’s shamefully hairless face does absolutely _nothing_ to cover, and he does, at least, stop flirting for the rest of the flight to Yavin IV, much to the relief of every sentient on board.

He’s scared when he runs away from the confrontation with the _Death Star,_ the stink of fear almost fully obscuring his usual scent when Luke comes by to talk to him, heartbroken and desperate for Han to help out, the younger human’s fear strong but different from Han’s, tempered by bravery you’re surprised to see in one so young. You mention it to Han after Luke’s left, practically dragging his feet in disappointment, and you get snapped at for it, but Han hesitates as he’s handing you the last crate of supplies, his attention fully focused on the garish orange of Luke’s jumpsuit, small but visible across the hangar, and it’s a good thing that humans have blunt teeth, because the way Han’s chewing at his lower lip when he turns around to snap _what’re you lookin’ at?_ at you would’ve broken the skin, had he teeth like yours.

You don’t ruffle his pelt when he says _we gotta go back_ a bare twenty minutes after you leave with him, his regret stifling in the cockpit, but you’re tempted. And the following day when he looks at you and says _don’t you say a goddamn thing, hairball,_ the medal of honor hanging around his neck shiny and _ridiculous,_ resting against the chest of a thief and liar as it is, you give in and ruffle him, hard enough that he has to drop to his knees to get away from you, bitching miserably the entire time.

He doesn’t return to the _Falcon_ that evening. You’d know if he did, the sensors you activated all around the ship still fully operational when you check them in the morning. He smells like Luke when you find him in the mess hall, drowning himself in kaffin because if there’s one treasure in the wide galaxy that Han Solo loves more than anything else, it’s free chemical stimulants, and when you rib him about spending the night with the brash blonde cub he acts like he can’t stand half the time they’re around each other, he hisses at you to _shut the hell up, you don’t know who here understands Shyriiwook_ and goes an impressive shade of scarlet. You suggest that he consider growing out what little fur he can manage on his face to help cover up the parade of emotions to which he so often treats the world and he answers with a deeply violent threat to shave you if you say another word, so your ruffle his pelt hard enough to push his face into his precious cup of kaffin and leave him to his bad mood, greeting Luke on your way out, Luke’s face going _just_ as red as Han’s as he says hi back, looking for all the world like he’s guilty of everything ever.

Mostly because he _is,_ his scent _all over_ Princess Leia when you pass by her in the corridor, her hair braided but messy, arms crossed over her chest as she speaks in low tones with one of the older males whose name you’ve forgotten but whose eyebrows could rival yours in bushiness. Which means Luke mated with Han _and_ Leia in the space of one night, not a feat unheard-of for humans -- you’ve been Han’s co-pilot long enough to know _just_ how frisky humans can be when they’re in a mood -- but not what you would have expected for the loud sandy-haired brat Han threatened to murder in a creative variety of ways within the first few hours of Luke’s time with you, the same brat Leia was caring for like he were her cub, not her mate, when you left the cockpit to check on them at Han’s grumbled insistence.

Leia doesn’t smell like Luke the next time you see her, later that evening.

She smells like Han.

Who points a finger in your face, close enough that you consider biting it off (he’s got nine others, you figure, and won’t be so hasty to put any of them in your face if you relieve him of one) and tells you to _keep your fool Wookiee face closed or so help me god,_ so you call him the worst insult you know and kick him because _that’s what happens to disrespectful cubs,_ for all that he’s starting to get to an age in human years where you can’t really consider him a cub anymore. Unlike the two humans who join you on the _Falcon_ when orders come down that Han takes without hesitation or complaint or haggling terms and prices, which you realize with horror sinking through your _soul_ means he’s probably taken the cubs as _payment,_ an insult to your people’s history and Han’s place in it that puts you in a rage so severe Han shouts over the comm for Luke and Leia to take shelter and lock the door before he dives under the nearest console, yanking his blaster from his hip and pointing it in your face.

“Don’t make me, Chewie,” he says, fear rolling off of him in stinking waves, the cowardice of an animal, which until that evening you would’ve thought Han were above, _well_ above. “What in the _seven hells of Moraband_ is wrong with you?”

The blaster’s set to stun, not to kill -- not Han’s usual setting, a change he had to’ve made intentionally, consciously -- and that’s really all that keeps his arms in their sockets and not decorating the far end of the cockpit, his hiding place woefully inadequate as protection from your superior strength. You feel static pricking at your fur before you hear the hum of Luke’s lightsaber and turn to see him standing in the doorway, feet spread in a defensive stance, his lightsaber engaged and held before him, ready to strike, Leia standing just behind him, a blaster in her hand and sadness deeper than the Corellian Sea in her eyes, unflinching when Han growls _I told the two of you to lock down goddamnit what is wrong with all of you,_ wisely still tucked away under the console.

“What’s going on?” Luke wants to know.

“Hell if I know,” Han says. “Chewie seriously, what the hell.”

He isn’t as afraid as he was, for all that he’s still cowering. You swat at Luke’s lightsaber, annoyed with the static making your fur stand on end, tiny shocks of static pricking at your skin and order Han to tell the cub to stand down, taking a step back as a show of cooperation. Han glares at you for a moment longer than he should really, then looks up at Luke and does as you’ve told him to, Luke hesitating before lowering his weapon, the room blessedly quiet without the lightsaber making the air vibrate around you, but Leia steps around him as if tied to the downsweep of Luke’s arms, her body firm and strong as she points the blaster at your heart, pain and determination bright in her big dark eyes.

“Move away from Han,” she says, flicking the blaster towards your flight-seat. “Sit. Secure the safety belts.”

You can’t roll your eyes like humans do when they’re being made to do something utterly ridiculous so you _tell_ Leia that she’s being a brat, even though you know full well she won’t understand you and Han won’t translate, never does when you’re insulting one of his mates. You do as she’s ordered you, snarling at Han when he slips out from under the console, and it’s as gratifying as it is heartbreaking to see him flinch at your snarl, obviously still scared of you. Which he shouldn’t be, he of _all_ creatures in the wide galaxy.

“Thanks,” he says to Leia without breaking eye contact with you. “Both of you.” He looks at them briefly, tucking his blaster back into its holster. “Get outta here. We’ll be okay, me ‘n Chewie. He puts up a good show, but he’s harmless. Really.”

He’s lying, which hurts, and Luke can _tell_ he’s lying and calls him out on it, which makes Han mad, and you’re not in the mood to sit around and listen to him have a spat with one of the two beautiful brave humans who deserve worlds’ more respect than Han’s given them, so you shuck off your safety belt and get one hand in Han’s pelt before Luke or Leia can raise their weapons against you, ruffling Han as you raise your other hand in the universal signal of surrender and peace, barking at them that you’re not going to remove any of Han’s parts, Han swatting at you as he translates.

“It’s the Wookiee way,” he says, trying (and failing) to fix the mess you’ve made of his pelt.

Luke and Leia give you twin looks of distrust but they _do_ leave when Han tells them to, Luke’s arm around Leia’s shoulders as they go, sweet and loving and your temper spikes at it because _how dare Han Solo take them on as pleasure slaves when they’re so much more than that_ and the look on Han’s face as you voice your confusion is one you will later wish you had preserved to hang on the wall of the _Falcon’s_ cockpit because it’s the most priceless look of utter _horror_ you’ve ever seen on a sentient.

“As _what?”_ he shouts, loudly enough that Luke and Leia are back in the doorway in a heartbeat, Luke’s lightsaber out but blessedly dormant, Leia’s blaster in her hands but pointed at the floor. “What is _wrong_ with you, why would you think that I would -- that they’d -- _what the kriffin’ hell is wrong with you Chewbacca.”_

You spell it out for him because, as deep as your affection for Han Solo goes, he’s considerably better at piloting and shooting and swindling than, y’know, _thinking,_ and it’s almost gratifying to see the way his face drains of color as you roar at him, his shoulders slumping as he takes a step back and sinks into the secondary flight-seat, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Yeah, okay, when you put it like _that,”_ he says behind his hand, shaking his head. “Could’a just _asked,_ y’know. Didn’t need to throw a tantrum.” He looks up when Leia pushes past Luke, her cheeks flushed and hands trembling a little where she’s still got a death-grip on her blaster.

“Explain,” she says.

Han looks at you. You shrug and remind him that she doesn’t understand Shyriiwook, which means the pleasure of putting his own stupidity into words is _all his._

“Great,” he says. “Thanks for nothing. Useless Wookiee.”

You remind him that he could undoubtedly pilot the _Falcon_ just fine with only one arm, a long-standing threat that he stopped taking seriously back when he was still just a cub himself and waves away with all the dismissal it deserves, pushing himself to his feet with a long-suffering and frankly melodramatic sigh.

“C’mon,” he says, “I ain’t doin’ this sober. Chewie, you’ve got the helm.”

You put the _Falcon_ on autopilot and follow him down to the galley, Luke and Leia between you, tense and smelling of fear, still, which makes you feel bad and gives you the urge to pull both of them into your lap and groom them, an odd homesickness for your son twisting around your heart as you resist, settling at the far end of the galley to watch them settle side-by-side, Leia twining her fingers with Luke’s, Luke’s shoulder pressed close against hers.

Han pours three drinks and downs his own in one go, refilling his glass and emptying it a second time before handing Luke and Leia their drinks, Leia taking a polite sip of hers and Luke taking a suspicious sniff of his, his nose wrinkling at the sharp scent of alcohol.

“Well?” he says, lowering his glass without tasting its contents.

Han sighs and empties his glass again, refilling it generously before flopping down across from the cubs, his legs spread wide and face pulled in a scowl. “Chewie here had the wrong idea about how we’re gettin’ compensated for this run,” he says, more direct than you’re expecting him to be. “He thought I’d taken the pair’a you on as payment and had ... _objections.”_ He rolls his head in your direction, the flush of his cheeks speaking to the quantity of alcohol he’s unwisely poured into his system. “And for the record he _could’a just asked_ instead of attacking.”

You remind him that temper control’s never been one of his strengths, either, and he loses the scowl, raising his glass to you in wobbling acknowledgement as he looks back at the others, Luke’s head cocked to the side in confusion and Leia’s expression full of pity, her gaze resting on you when you look at her.

“How would we be payment?” Luke says.

Han barks a laugh. “I ain’t spellin’ that one out for you, kid,” he says. “Figure that out on your own.”

“Because he’s slept with us both,” Leia says quietly, untangling her hand from Luke’s to touch him on the knee. “And because of the history of Kashyyyk, that would be a very sore topic.” She looks you in the eye, drawing herself up to her full, tiny height, as regal as any human you’ve ever encountered. “I’m so sorry we upset you. I wish we’d not.”

She has nothing to be sorry for, it’s not _her_ fault that Han’s moral code is questionable at best, and you tell her that, then bark at Han to translate because he’s busy drowning himself in the contents of his glass again and you want her to know that she’s not done anything wrong, that she’s just got terrible taste in human men, Han undoubtedly a terrible choice of mate for someone like her, and the open-mouthed cub seated at her side doesn’t seem to be all that much better for her either, his bravery and conviction nice enough, sure, but he still looks confused when he says _what happened on Kashyyyk?_

Leia sighs and looks at him like she can’t quite believe he’s as naive as he is. “The Empire blockaded the planet,” she says. “Tens of thousands of Wookiees were enslaved and imprisoned because of it. The trade of sentients is therefore a delicate subject for them as a result, as you might imagine.”

Luke has the decency to look horrified at that, at least. “I didn’t know,” he says, looking from Leia to you. “That happened on my homeworld, too. Still is happening.” He takes a sip of his drink and shudders visibly. “I’ve seen how terrible it is, how --” He gestures, slopping his drink a little over his hand. “I’m sorry.”

It’s not _his_ fault, either, and Han’s gotten himself drunk enough that he translates your reassurances to that effect without prompting, drunk enough that he translates as well your side comment, which you intended _only_ for him, that it might be worth consideration, going back to Tatooine and liberating the enslaved there, and it’s only the way Luke brightens at the words and looks at you like you’re a hero or something that keeps you from rearranging Han’s limbs into something that might help him remember to _filter_ in the future.

“I’ll go back and do it myself, someday,” Luke tells you, his voice quiet and determined, enough of the man he might grow into if he survives long enough showing through to set to rest your reservations about Leia taking him as her mate. “I promise.”

“Good ‘cause you won’t have our help,” Han says, thoroughly ruining the moment. He stands and puts his glass on the dejarik table, stretching ‘til his back pops. “This has all been real fun, so I’m gonna go lie down now. Chewie, don’t fly us into anything solid.”

You remind him as he goes that _he’s_ the only one who’s ever come close to doing that, and he doesn’t argue _because it’s true,_ Luke and Leia looking only a little uncomfortable as they stand and follow him, apparently intent on joining him in his quarters, which is fine, none of your business, just so long as Han doesn’t end up hurting either of them, physically _or_ emotionally, his history of broken hearts scattered across the galaxy more colorful than you’d prefer it to be, were you in charge.

You make your way back to the cockpit and settle in your flight-seat, making mental note to properly threaten Han when he’s finished with his mates and hopefully ready to listen to reason.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alternate title: _Everyone’s Favorite OT3: The Chewbacca Edition._ (Except Chewie doesn’t ship it. _At all.)_

A few other points of interest:

I looked up Harrison Ford with a beard out of curiosity while writing this story, and will regret it for the rest of my natural lifespan. Mark Hamill can _rock_ a beard, lord preserve us, but Ford? Dear god no, please keep shaving forever.

I also looked up Wookiees and was horrified to learn that they live to be 400 years old, on average. That means that Chewbacca -- who is 200 years old when we meet him in _A New Hope_ \-- was already doomed to outlive Han, even before Kylo Ren happened (or [didn’t happen](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6453340), as the case may be, practice safe sex, kids). Breaks my little heart right in half, that does. Can I send JJ Abrams and George Lucas the bill for all the red wine I’m downing as a direct result of the _Star Wars_ universe? Get a reimbursement in the form of getting to pet Mark Hamill’s hair?

No?

Damn.

On a semi-related note, I’m pretty deeply settled into my personal head-canon that Chewbacca’s got all kinds of protective paternal feelings for Leia. If there’s a bit in Ep VIII where he comforts her after Han’s death or confronts Luke for abandoning her or comforts her after _she_ confronts Luke for abandoning her, I’ll probably drown in my own tears. And yes, before anyone even _wonders,_ I have plans to smuggle wine into the theatre to drown my sorrows when the film comes out. Ahh, the beauty of living close enough to the theatre to take public transit, allowing me to drink through the pain. The little goals you don’t know to have when you’re younger and just _revel_ in once you’re all grown up.

(Pretty sure Chewbacca wouldn’t approve of most of my life-choices. Ah well.)


End file.
